


pipedream

by orphan_account



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Reader is a Mom, Slow Burn, YALL ALREADY KNOW, alastor is chaotic and reader doesn't get it, angel is.. oof man, at the start at least he gets better, be prepared to be very annoyed at the amount of metaphors in this fic, chapter titles are lyrics from songs, hes a bad person in this fic lol, not really but she ACTS LIKE IT!!!, pretentious writing alert, reader based off of kara from dbh ngl, she's just trying to be good, was formerly "keep running for the sink (but the well is dry)" i changed title!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-01-30 23:37:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21436567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: his eyes glint a dark red, sinister, cunning, opportunistic.the lightheartedness you felt contorted and warped into a pit of dread like a rock being dropped from a high cliff, it reaches the sea and splash, just like that, it's sunken, pure, dire, unadulterated distress like you were a rabbit looking into the eyes of your predator.and all you can do is stare.ᵒʳᶜʰⁱᵈˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵒⁿᵉʸ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵐⁱˡᵏ, ʸᵒᵘʳ ʷᵒʳᵈˢ ᵃʳᵉ ᵖʳᵃʸᵉʳˢ.
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader, Charlie Magne/Vaggie
Comments: 22
Kudos: 175





	1. make a mercy (out of me)

When you first awoke among the fire and brimstone bathed in red you were nonplussed.

One: the bullet hole where your heart should have been was gone, replaced with fresh new clean skin - the searing pain had disappeared completely, leaving only the slight buzz of the confusion in your brain.

Two: the freezing forest that had felt like it had been caving in on you was replaced with the warm candlelight of pentagrams and a red, _red_ sky. The snow on the ground was replaced with concrete and the little falling crystals were replaced by _ash_.

Three: Chinatsu was not with you.

Chinatsu, the lost little girl that knew barely a word of English was with you when you were killed. You had seen the gun point at her in your last moments. There was no mistaking it; she was _dead_. And if this were the afterlife, she should be here, right? But this - made very clear in the first moments you spent here - was Hell. Where else would have vending machines filled to the brim with drugs and shouting, angry residents that yelled at anyone that so much as looked at them the wrong way? If this was Hell, then your soul had already been admitted to the damned.

But Chinatsu had a chance.

She was such a sweet girl. You knew little Japanese but that was enough to get by: she would chime a broken English sentence or two when she was happy or thankful, and you would utter calming, soft (admittedly broken) words whenever tears threatened to spill from her eyes. You had to give up a few meals so she wouldn't be hungry but it was all worth it when a smile lit up her face when you pronounced a word right. Your savings had drowned themselves entirely but it was worth it: after all, it was so she would be safe.

She couldn't have been older than nine. If this was Hell, she certainly wasn't here - and that's what brought you to this damn hotel in the first place.

_"Come, we don't have much time."_

_The words did nothing to calm the little girl, despite the woman's best efforts. Tears kept pouring and pouring - sobs racked her body, and she stumbled over invisible rocks on the cement that went on for a million miles ahead. The woman uttered words of encouragement and ushered the little girl with futile sweetened 'hurry's, yet it did nothing to stop the blubbers of incoherent apologies and pleas._

_"It's okay," the woman soothed. "You're safe with me."_

_The little girl clutched the woman's coat in her tiny hands._

_"He can't hurt you anymore."_

"Please, if this works -" tears threatened to spill from your eyes and with every word your voice shook. You take a moment to recompose. A deep breath. "Sorry. . . If this works. . . I'll see her again, right? I'll know she's okay; that she's somewhere good, and I can keep protecting her, she'll be okay with me, god, she's probably so _scared_-"

You realize you're just babbling now.

"Sorry, sorry. I'll do whatever you want. . . please let me be a patient at this hotel."

The Princess of Hell stares at you incredulously, and for a moment, you think she'll turn you away and call you weird - but she's breaking into a huge smile, and her girlfriend at the back is looking at you with softer, kinder eyes than before. You see ghosts of tears well in the Princess's eyes.

"Of course! You'll love it here, I promise!" She tackles you in a hug. "You'll get to Heaven, you'll see her again,_ I promise!"_


	2. i am naught (but a scar upon your breastbone)

"She really seems genuine about this. She's our best shot, I know it!"

"I know," Vaggie's eyes soften. "But I wouldn't get your hopes up. We don't know if this works. Or if she even can change. We don't know what she did."

"Every demon can change if they want to," Charlie argues, a smile still bright on her face. "She's not doing it for herself, Vaggie. She's doing it for her little girl! That's motivation enough right there, and she seems like a really sweet person too! The way she started crying; it's clear she really _does_ want to do this!"

"Maybe she wants to," Vaggie lowers her voice. "But getting into Heaven is a different story, Charlie."

You tune them out, teacup clutched tightly in hand, a looming feeling of dubiety taking hold in the bottom of your stomach. _All that glitters is not gold, _one of your old friend's favourite sayings. Being around him imbued a certain sense of skepticism in you (and you may have gained a prickly reputation for it back when you were alive) but it had completely missed you this time around - you were paying for it now. Leaving would make you feel too bad and staying would only. . . well, there aren't any obvious downsides except for wasting time, but you had lots of that down here.

And socializing, you guess: the forced, cordial smiles you'd have to put on soon (as per Charlie's request of getting to know the staff and other resident) would be mildly irritating when you just wanted to be alone. Before, you'd take the opportunity to socialize given someone else started the conversation (you were terrible at it, you weren't going to lie) with a smile, be it forced or genuine, but Hell had changed you.

Hell changed everyone.

Hell was a photograph. Every trashcan, every stretch of pavement, every skyscraper was _intimate_, it was weary, it was harsh: Hell did not care for anyone or anything, it did not wait for you, it would not set sympathy upon your life and free you from the grip of the tyrants in this Gehenna, in this _ruin_. And it was deliberate. That was the worst part.

You were sent here. Sent. Someone chose for you to spend your life in eternal damnation and for what? What did you do that was so bad?

Everything you did was to protect her. Everything. It wasn't your fault, it was theirs. You don't feel any sympathy for them.

You could deny it all you want, smile for Charlie and let her do whatever it is she thinks will work but you don't believe it. You have hope: you know, that hope you have when maybe you might meet your favourite celebrity today or your crush might confess because_ of course_, all those little signs must have meant _something._ But deep down you know it won't happen, so you continue to fantasize.

He leans in for a kiss. You get her autograph.

She runs to you, bright and happy.

_You're finally here,_ in perfect English and you, perfect Japanese, because language barriers don't exist in a place like that. Everyone is happy and nice; death doesn't rear it's head and disease and famine is no more: a perfect place, to make up for all the shit she had to go through. There's a million other kids for her to play with and a million friends to make, and her quaint little grandfather makes the famous yakisoba she always talked about each day, and she's happy. And she's safe. And you get to see her grow up into a strong woman and wonder if you did enough: _you did the best you could, _she'd smile, because she knew you certainly weren't perfect; but she'd forgive you for making all those mistakes all the same, and she'd forgive you for not knowing what to do one hundred percent of the time.

And you two are happy, you and her and her family, you and her and your family. 

_Happy._

_"Chinatsu."_

_The woman gripped the little girl's hand harder than the little girl herself, like she was the child in this situation. Chinatsu gazed up at the woman, and even though the language barrier separated them linguistically, sometimes eyes alone were enough to tell what each other were thinking._

_"What do we do if someone wants to hurt us?"_

_Now that was a phrase Chinatsu knew. It was hardly legible; [Y/N] still had a long way to go before she perfected Japanese, but it worked for now, and that was a problem for another day. This was... rule number... was it three, or four? She guessed that didn't matter, and recited the answer to the best of her ability._

_"I-I'm your, um..." Chinatsu saw [Y/N] give a nervous but encouraging smile, mouthing the next words. "I'm your daughter, from Japan. A-and then let you do the talking, right?" _

_"Yes," she took on a fond tone, smiling wider, yet her voice and smile dropped the moment Chinatsu heard footsteps approaching._

Suddenly it's as if all the doubt had washed away and you were swept off your own feet - groundbreaking, revolutionary. A rush of that sentiment you get when you see a glimpse of what your future could be like when you see the university you wish to go, or when you buy your first apartment. You see all the memories you _could_ make, the visions of splendor, the praise from your family and the recognition from your future coworkers. Hopelessly and utterly grandiose without a cause, but it feels justified - after all, it'll happen, right? It has to. You slip through the crack of time with the teacup still clutched in your hand and return to not a drop spilled, and...

is that the _radio demon?_

Yes, it appears so, as he's grinning _wildly_ ear-to-ear, and a purr of radio static drones in your head like white noise; in the background, but still _there_, and ever so present. Threatening and animalistic, carnal - like a lion staring down it's prey.

"Is this a new patient?" His tone is teasingly inquisitive. You feel a bead of sweat on your forehead, he's just _staring_-

and suddenly he _BANGS_ his hand on the table and leans in too, _too_ close to reach a hand out in a handshake. The teacup almost falls over. His grin never falters, nor does that threatening, wild glint in his eyes. His face is just a few centimeters apart from yours. Apparently he decides you're taking too long to shake his hand so he takes the initiative and gives two firm shakes to a limp hand and drops it back to your side as if he was throwing off his gloves after getting home. Dismissive.

"Can't wait to see you fail," he sings, dancing away.

And all you can do is stare.


	3. all the lonely people (where do they all come from?)

"I killed," delicate as a petal, come on in, have a cup of tea, watch the rain from inside as it beats upon the window and close your eyes. _Rest. _

"I don't feel sympathy for them." So casual. So forgiving. "I don't lose any sleep over it. I kill to protect."

Staring at the rain from inside as it beats upon the window, closing her eyes, for a split second only, look at her write her stories and poems and elegies and sermons that will never be read, see her live in a daze of metaphors and similes, so quiet, so forgiving to herself, so casual. Looking out the window to the rain tapping on the ground violently; no, [Y/N] [L/N] does not look, [Y/N] [L/N] watches. [Y/N] [L/N] watches whenever she looks at him or at anyone else. She watches whenever she notices something off, something missing. She watches whenever she remembers a far-away memory, distant and painful. She watches whenever she does anything. _But she does not look._

People are not born that way. He did not need to guess to know that the person [Y/N] [L/N] had been is gone. It's a candid, blunt truth: some people are born in Hell. [Y/N] [L/N] is one of those people. Whatever colour [Y/N] [L/N] had in her eyes was replaced with a stark black, and whatever colour she had in her soul was replaced by a portrait of dark blues and light gold, a flurry of quiet resilience, a calm vengeance. Rain tapping against the window, eyes glazed over, staring at orchids. Solemn, grim, austere. In her own head and yet still so cautious of everything around her; so scared, so somber, eyes half-lidded and yet resembles a doe to the very likeness. Maternal, protective.

See how she writes in that notebook like she's only got one day to live. See how she keeps on going, even if her hand must hurt by now. See how she examines those orchids like gazing upon a lovely landscape.

"I killed for her, and I'd do it a thousand times over in a heartbeat if it meant she was safe."

See how she pores over the vicious, unforgiving concrete jungle that is Hell, see how her eyes glaze over as she does. See how she blinks away unshed tears every now and then.

"I killed so she could _live,"_

and yet no one was saved.

Angel Dust is a peculiar person. He was so disinterested, yet at the same time, he seemed so... fascinated by you? Like he had no idea how you were the way you were, yet he didn't worry about it enough to actually take the time to talk to you outside of when he had to or when it was convenient for him. Not that you were complaining, but still, it was strange.

Niffty is the kind of person that makes you smile no matter how you're feeling, even if it's just for a second, or for the whole day. Sometimes she talked so much that it became overwhelming, but that was overshadowed by how grateful she became when you offered to help, then proceeded to turn it down and give you the least troublesome task when you insisted. You couldn't help but want to be her friend. You suppose that's already improvement.

Husk is a ghost of a friend. You two hold a mutual respect; he doesn't quite understand your vendetta against drinking, but that's okay: you deny it all the same when he keeps offering, bewildered. You two don't talk much because the bar isn't a place you're especially drawn to, but the conversations you do have with him are quiet and nice.

Alastor... Alastor is, well, to say the least... confusing. You aren't quite sure if you like or dislike him - you like him, but you _don't_, but you _do, _he's so friendly but also so threatening? He looks at you with a glint in his eyes that makes you feel like he's got you all figured out and yet he still wants to know _more... _Granted, the only times you've spoken to him were... well, now that you think of it, it's only been one time.

"Smile, my dear!" He grabbed you by the hand and swung you around like a dance move - _so dizzy -_ and your coffee nearly flew out of your hand. Miraculously, not a drop spilled, and he took it and placed it on the table before anything had the chance to after.

"You look so _depresso," _He hands you the coffee, and you stare. _Did he really just..._

You try to fight off the grin creeping onto your face at the incredulous thought of the _Radio Demon himself_ making a _dad joke._ Though..._ Why not play along?_

You say the first thing that comes to mind, and even though your voice is quiet and awkward and the joke itself isn't that good, it gets the same reaction you were looking for. "I like that pun a... _latte."_

His smile widens even further, eyes lighting up. Cue another little duo dance move, and a laugh track to complete it. You gasp as he swings you around.

"Oh, where have you _bean_ all my life?" He puts a hand to his forehead in mock woe. 

"... you sure do like to ex- no, _espress... o_... yourself... uh..."

"The delivery might not have been there, but A for effort!"

You're unable to stop the sheepish grin that climbs upon your face. He smirks at you, sardonic, as a distant clapping track plays through a radio filter. He stills like that for a few beats (and you're convinced you've done something to offend him) but bluntly and suddenly he springs up and starts dancing again, little small mirthful dance moves that sometimes include a hand from you or a step or two to the right or the left. That's how he leaves, skipping and smiling and with a glint in his eyes. And all you can do is stare, your heart lifted, even if it's just a little more.

You don't know why, but the lightheartedness that you felt warped and contorted into a heavy rock in your stomach, and it felt like pure _dread._

Radio static purrs in your head like a warning; present, intrusive, prying, invasive, _ominous._

You push it into the back of your mind, and take another sip of the bitter coffee, _it's just my imagination. It's just my imagination. It's just my imagination._

Only your imagination.


	4. bend the nightmare (you control it)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha yes okay jaws was SO boring for me lmao also ill be damned if i dont use game of thrones references at every possible chance also im sorry no alastor this chapter
> 
> (or is there...?)

There she is. Seated at her desk writing like a madman, hand moving fast, like the words are coming too quickly for her hands to process so they desperately try to catch up. But they're failing, and he can't see her face, but if he could he's sure her eyes would be outlined in dark circles like she hadn't slept in weeks.

The candlelight makes her look lovely, though - _candlelight_ is an accomplice of romance, it caresses one's features like the lover's touch and carries the small light of desire that burns deep within one's stomach when your companion kisses you in that way that makes you hate time. I have been a walking ghost before I met you, nectar, I have not tasted mortal food before this very moment, not breathed through mortal lungs. Ambrosia, I have been nothing but lifeless, nothing but a hull to this empty soul. Ichor, _you_ are _all that matters_, nobody else, only _we_ exist and only _we_ live and breathe and we _will_ die but first, we'll _live._

_I imagine love to be certain ways. I don't know if I've ever felt true romantic love, most of it was only crushes, but..._

And the sea overflows and like seaweed we sway in tune to the crashing of the waves. Sometimes we sway slowly, barely touching each other, other times it's a violent battle of just how much we can fit together, all of you, all of me. Schools of fish come and go but we know they leave eventually, no matter how attached we may grow to them. Only We are permanent. Only We are loyal. The ships above do not cast a shadow on us.

And We are all that matters. Us, We, Both Of Us, however you want to call it, I will utter your words like prayers and fall to my knees to worship you. I will follow you to the ends of the earth, my love, because We are permanent. We cannot be untangled.

Our fates are red strings, rough and coarse, and woven together to make a tapestry of divine will, of zeal and ardency. And we will stay entangled for the rest of time, my dear, even as our bodies turn to dust and our bones decompose. Even as our minds turn into a mess of metaphors as we take our last breath, even as we shed a last tear, share a last kiss.

_I imagine it to be intense. Everlasting. Like that person is your family now, I imagine it to be as deep as the maternal love I had for Chinatsu. Have. I couldn't be happy if she wasn't, that is how I imagine real love to be. This is how I think love is. These words, this excerpt are an homage to something I've never witnessed, a feeling I've never felt, a sight I've never seen, a taste I haven't yet tasted. I hope to taste the nectar and ambrosia one day. I hope I'll bleed not blood, but ichor, one of these days. I hope I'll feel like the ebb and flow of the sea._

He's never felt that before either.

Those are the words she's frantically scribbling in that notebook, those are the words she thinks of when she gazes at the beacon of hope, the Orchid.

Maybe it's intrusive to pry into someone's notebook.

He doesn't really care.

You dream of the white expanse of the beach littered with driftwood of your childhood only a ten minute drive from your small little fishing town. You dream of the beautiful downtown area where the buildings had not changed for a long while, rustic and picturesque. You dream of the salty air near the river that ran through the streets and the wood of the bridge that leaped across it. You dream of the tree at the end of your street turning green, then just at the end of autumn, nice warm colours of red and yellow and orange.

So soon, it's blanketed by a layer of sparkling white snow, and the air bites at your lungs and the back of your throat in a nice comforting way. A snowflake lands on your eyelash, then another on your lip: the taste of winter, the taste of innocence. You dream of the movie nights with your family, of crying at the end of a sad one, of sitting in shock at the end of a foreboding dark movie, staring in awe. You dream of the soft blue light of the TV, and of the complete and utter boredom while watching Jaws for the first time. You dream of your childhood.

You dream of the smell of alcohol, and promptly wake up.

Your eyes are groggy and your mouth dry when sunlight comes streaming in from the window. Can you even call it sunlight? It's red, bathing your room in scarlet undertones that feel just too powerful to be _undertones_, a painful reminder of all that you had and all that you lost. The Orchid stands a beacon, cerulean and contrasting, a stark lighthouse against the wine-coloured harsh reality. It comforts you. You get out of bed, turn on the warm golden desk light, and start writing.

That's where you stay, and that's where you fall asleep.

Angel Dust is cloyingly saccharine from the beginning. When you look at him it's roseate, pearly, roseate, pearly, white and pink and white and pink. And those black boots, a stark contrast against the rest of his pale appearance (they were first thing you noticed about him). He _looks_ like a sweet person - until you get to that cocky grin of his, and then the taste of ambrosia crumbled into a bitter, indifferent, absinthian mess. The flavour increased a hundred times over when he talked.

It's not that you _want_ to hate him, or even just hate him in the first place - but you couldn't help it when he made digs and insults at Vaggie just to infuriate her or when he gave you patronizing nicknames without any kindness behind them. It's like when a food looks really good so you take a bite and it turns to a lumpy wet mess that you can't help but spit out. Okay, maybe that was a little exaggerated, but still.

TLDR; he's deceiving, and you want no part of it.

"Husk. That isn't healthy, y'know..."

"I'm already dead," he says bluntly. "I can't die twice."

"No," you shake your head, you sound like a child again. "I mean for your mental health. It won't help."

"It's gotten me this far," he gives you a sardonic grin. "Really, I'm okay."

"Are you?"

"Stop it," you groan, eyebrows furrowed into a frustrated contortion. "Give my my book back."

The spider laughs mockingly, and opens to a page scribbled with frantic writing, hold it up too far above for you to reach. His face twists in incredulous derisive sneer as he reads the page.

"'And he laughs, because who would be so kind as to help me in this landscape? And he grins, because who would expect him to?'"

"Stop," you seethe, jumping to grab it. He lifts it up further like you are a child.

"'He leans in, and for the first time someone's words make sense. It's like finding someone who speaks English in a foreign country.'"

The spider's high mocking voice is too much for you to handle. He gives a few incredulous laughs. He's using the wrong inflections, the wrong way to say it, it just sounds _stupid now, _wrong, wrong, all wrong, the pronunciation is all wrong and the emphasis is on all the wrong words.

"Honestly, _stop."_

"It's eureka, an epiphany of just what this place is and represents. A bombshell of a miracle, he's a godsend, I'm convinced of it," he gives a few mocking laughs in-between the words. "'A godsend, I tell you. He's the only one that makes sense. This is the only thing that makes any sense: a Machiavellian glint in his eyes, uncaring of anyone else, the only one that matters to him is _him_, _"look around. We're all liars here. But each one of us is better than you."_'" 

Angel laughs again.

"He's right," he grins.

Machiavellian.


End file.
